


All That Remains is Nothing at All

by Megane



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Bloodlust, Drunk Sex, Drunkenness, Isolation, Loss of Parent(s), Loss of time, Lovers' Spat, Multi, Nightmares, Prompt Fill, Recklessness, Self-Destruction, Sleep Deprivation, Starvation, Time Skips, Trans Character, Weight Issues, original character mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-03-03 10:38:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2847941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megane/pseuds/Megane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leandra Hawke wanted nothing more than to give her children the life they deserved. Hawke wanted to see his mother happy and in the home of her childhood. Bethany gets taken by the Templars. Leandra gets taken by a madman, and eventually, Hawke is taken by inconsolable sadness. What will he do now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The First Step is Loss

**Author's Note:**

> Filling [another prompt](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/11381.html?thread=46290549#t46290549), and I keep falling into some same pitfalls, especially in the beginning. Just stick it out with me, and we'll see this get better.

Hawke knew for certain that he would never "get over it". The sight was burned into his mind and would be forever. His mother… His precious mother had been stitched together like a ragdoll. Her body was a mesh of all those poor women who had been abused by blood magic. No. Abused by a mad man. Hawke feebly held onto the fact that it was the man, not the magic, that was to blame. It was hard; rage shook him to the core and in every form. Magic didn't put the idea into this psychopath's mind. Magic didn't put those lilies. Magic wasn't the one to deliver the final, liberating blow. Hawke almost wished that it had been, but he knew that he had to be the one to free her – to free the memory of them. Regardless, it haunted his dreams every night since.

Bad habits were both easy to find and plentiful. The rogue began to drink himself into a stupor. When he didn't feel like going out, he locked himself in his room and went missing for days. Bodahn and Orana could do nothing to console him. He hardly reacted to their pleading voices. Just as they decided on who would go out to retrieve on of Hawke's companions, the bedroom door open. The mourning son finally stepped out looking haunting, thinner, and was devoid of his usual charisma. He walked stiffly down each of the steps. Orana quickly offered to fix him a meal; Bodahn rattled on about how he polished up all of Hawke's equipment.

The rogue barely heard them. He motioned a hand out, a vague movement. The two quieted and stepped away from him. They shared a look and quickly set off to do _something_. Bodahn went to the weapon's chest near the fireplace. Orana dashed to the kitchen, fetching the water and lutefisk. Hawke didn't take note of his helpers' actions. He came to the entry hall, stripped himself of his robe and slippers, and donned his chosen armour. Sandal wandered out to the foyer and watched as the rogue strolled to the door. He turned, looked to his father, and stated "Gone".

Bodahn, upon hearing his son's voice, stopped what he was doing and turned. He was partway through asking Sandal to repeat himself when he saw the front door open silently. "M-master Hawke?" Bodahn stammered. Orana walked into the living room, balancing a woven basket of food in one hand and a tankard of water in the other. Bodahn looked to her in confusion, unable to find his words. They stepped closer to Sandal, and as they approached, the front door swung closed with a low  _thud_.

Bodahn sighed heavily and placed his hands on Sandal's shoulder. He glanced up to Orana. "Let's give him some time," he said feebly, trying to stay positive. Orana nodded her head slowly and turned on her heel. Bodahn beckoned for Sandal to follow as he turned away. After a lingering moment of staring fixated at the door, Sandal turned away. He would just stand in a new place and wait for Hawke.


	2. The Next: Drink and Sleep It All Away

Hawke knew that he needed a place to rest and eat that didn't remind him of his home. As he numbly rolled through his options, he knew that all of his friends were out of the question. He didn't want to look to their pitying expressions. He didn't want to  _talk_ about… it. The situation he so desperately wanted to put behind him. He deliriously wandered through Hightown and eventually made his way through Lowtown. He paid too much coin for watered down liquor. Eventually, someone took pity on him and gave him 'the good stuff'. It was smuggled, Orlesian. It tasted as pompous as it sounded, but it muddled Hawke's blood quick. He plopped himself by a row of crates and drank himself into a stupor until night fell.

Before he had a mind to realise it, Hawke found himself standing outside of The Blooming Rose. He swayed dangerously on his feet, giving the door in front of him a violent glare. When he found his balance, he shoved open the door and woke up under a courtesan. She was busty, pretty, Elven. Her underbust corset shoved her cleavage up to high heaven. Hawke gripped her hips tight and thrust into her madly, suddenly aware of his oncoming orgasm. She threw her head back and was particularly vocal. Hawke wasn't sure if it was for show, but he would be damned if he thought he cared. He lifted himself up and pressed his face into her chest, taking in her scent, nose damp from the sweat of her sternum. She laced her fingers into his hair and pulled his head back sharply. The rogue groaned and opened his eyes.

Her hair was down now, tousled over one side of her face. The corset were gone, and her breasts bounced freely. A bottle of ale rolled off the bed and tinkered against the floor. It was another night, lost to the transition of time. Lost to the courtesan rutting in his lap and whimpering his name. The high pitch of her voice caught Hawke's attention again. He pulled her off his lap, and the frustrated growl was enough to make him smirk. The nameless elf spread her legs and rocked wantonly against him. Hawke leaned forward and nipped at her neck, leaving bites of different depths against her almond toned skin. He reached down between their bodies to work them both to a mutual completion. The elf gasped as Hawke rocked against her. She dug her nails into the flesh of his shoulders and bit down on her bottom lip. She adjusted herself slightly before hooking her legs around his waist. Hawke panted against her neck, fisting the sheets as he rut against her. He felt the heat against his palm before they both came. Hawke felt the mess against his chest but couldn't think to care. He sat up on his knees and looked down at the pretty woman. She smiled up at him satisfied. A laugh was coaxed out of her when Hawke reached up his free hand and squeezed one of her breasts.

          “It’s always good seeing you, Serah,” the elf muttered, rolling onto her back and basking in the glow. Hawke didn’t respond. Didn’t want to. Didn’t need to. “Coming back soon?” she asked as he headed to the door.

Hawke paused and glanced over to the escort. She was wearing something black and form fitting. A deal of it had been forcefully stripped away during their romp. She eyed the empty bottle of Orlesian dark she turned between her hands. Hawke furrowed his brows, wondering how many nights he had been seeing her. She lifted her head, and their eyes met. Hawke placed his hand against the doorframe and stared at the floor ahead of him before nodding.

          “Probably.”

He finally stumbled out of the room, and the elf let him. He staggered down the steps, hand holding the banister in a vice grip as he made his way down. His thoughts tumbled in his mind noisily, and he made his way to one of the tables. He wanted to sit down for a meal, and as he waited, he realised he had his fill of this place. A curly haired man walked into his field of vision and flashed a dazzling smile. Hawke ordered something hot and a cider. After wolfing down his meal, he stood from the table and felt remarkably but regretfully sober. He left a few pieces of silver and a dozen gold on the table. Over tipping? Maybe. He was surprised he wasn't a pauper by now. The cold night was a shock to his heat-soaked body. A headache rushed up his form and deviously caressed his brain. The heavy door of the Blooming Rose closed behind him, and Hawke took a moment to collect himself.

With a resigned sigh, he stepped away from the Blooming Rose and pulled his clothes close to his body. They had been washed during his stay. He didn't know when and didn't question it. As he walked, he just barely missed the two voices rounding the corner behind him and heading in his general direction. Hawke smoothed his hands down his form as he stormed down the stairs. The laughter behind him died at the sound of his heavy feet. Hawke felt his heart jump into his throat but didn't turn at the curious lilt of the Rivaini accent.

          “... Hawke?”


	3. After: Let Them Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You thought I forgot about this? Naaah. This chapter was initially going to be up on 18 Sept. 2015, but as you can see that didn't happen. And so, five months and four days later — bam! We have an update. There were a lot of meshed up ideas going on, and 2015 was a nightmare for me. Now I actually feel a motivation to finish this. 
> 
> Thanks for being so patient with me as always.

Hawke debated about heading to The Wounded Coast. It would be foolish to go alone, he knew, but he could vent out his aggressions and maybe make back all the coin he lost in the past few…… days? He was still trying to gather that. He wandered all around Kirkwall, only having to use his abilities sometimes to stay out of sight. He headed all the way to Darktown and hid out at The Black Emporium for a while. He had the suspicion that no one else knew this place existed and felt comforted. He snuck food and wine in from the outside and amused himself with drunken monologues. If the nightmares were too severe, he calmed himself with Xenon's rare opiates. When Hawke finally emerged, he recoiled from the scarce sunlight and narrowed his eyes at any of the Darktown residents he passed by. He was in the clear for a while. He could see the look of recognition in their eyes, but they always did a double take. He looked too thin, had lost too much weight. He scoffed at their judging and confused faces. As long as they didn't slow him, he wouldn't address their concerns. He pilfered a cloak from a dilapidated cart. Some more curious looks, a few murmured remarks, but no one stopped him. In Darktown, everyone just either took or bought something. Giving was rare.

Things were worse in the world above. People pretended to be kindhearted, and the ones who said that they were often found kindness through disgust. Maybe Hawke was just cynical. The thought made his lips twist down in an ugly frown. He fought to bring the circulation back to his fingers. They hadn't been the same since he digested those opiates at the Emporium. He threw a rueful look over his shoulder in the general direction of the secret shoppe. Hawke pulled his cloak over his face and kept his hands balled up into fists at his sides. Sometimes he reached up to pull at his covering. One of those times got him in trouble. Hawke was passing the Weaponsmithy and paused near a corner to adjust his hood. As he turned away, he smoothed the cloak over his form before stepping away. An armoured hand seized his wrist and spun him around. Hawke's eyes widened, and he was only very slightly surprised when he started into the familiar, furious green gaze. Fenris hissed a swear in Tevine and tightened his fingers around the rogue. He jerked his hand away in shock, feeling how  _thin_ the other man was now. He knew that thinness. It screamed of malnourished days. Hawke avoided the elf's gaze. He could feel the scrutiny and immediately wished he stayed at the Blooming Rose. At least there, he was well-fed and well-fucked into a timeless bliss.

He took the chance to turn away but was immediately grabbed again. This time, Fenris didn't scruntinse him. They were heading back to Hightown. But first, a detour. Fenris thrust open the door to the Hanged Man with too much power. The door slammed against a wall, narrowly missing a couple of exiting patrons. Hawke could feel the elf trembling and wondered how close he was to flashing his lyrium. Honestly, he was surprised Fenris wasn't a walking lantern right now. In that moment, he was impressed with himself. He was a weakened shadow of himself, and he still found the mind for humour. He flexed the fingers of his free hand and was glad that the feeling had come back to them. He tried to do the same with his other hand. He wasn't surprised that he could hardly feel anything. Fenris was determined not to let him go. Thankfully for both parties, Varric was downstairs and entertaining a group of bar attendants. Hawke felt a pang of something he couldn't place. Varric didn't look worried about him. The rogue scoffed. He couldn't blame him. 

A mug went down hard to Hawke's left. Mistakenly, he turned his head. He missed the dwarf's approach and was surprised when two large fists balled up his cloak.

          "Where in Andraste's name have you been?" 

Hawke blinked down at the dwarf. Surprise caused his heart to still abruptly in his chest. When its pace picked up again, he glanced from Varric to Fenris, who was glaring viciously at him. Fenris then turned his attention down to Varric.

          "Tell Avaline and Isabela I found him. I'll send word when I figure out what's going on." Again, the elf brought his attention to the man he held fast. "Hawke and I need a moment alone."

          "Say no more." Varric lifted up his hands. "I won't get in the way of you two." He glanced up to Hawke, frowning deeply with knit brows. "By the gods, Hawke, am I glad you're okay."

With that, the bar storyteller turned around, flicking his hand in a way that Fenris understood. The elf nodded and pulled Hawke out of the tavern. The rogue thought to say goodbye but knew they would see each other again. Soon. If Fenris had anything to say about it. The walk to Hightown was edged with a jagged silence. For once, Hawke was glad he had nothing to say. They headed up the stairs to the richer province and immediately ducked towards the bazaar. Hawke could have sworn that all he did was blink and yet somehow they were upstairs in Fenris' manor, sitting at the large dining table. The elf thunked down a bottle of wine beside Hawke and took a seat at the end of the table. He nodded to the baskets ( — _baskets_ — ) of food.

          "Eat." The word came out drier than the soot in the fireplace.

Hawke looked down to the food and felt overwhelmed. His stomach knotted up unpleasantly, and his tongue felt heavy as though something was clogging his palette. Fenris relaxed, only marginally, and pointed to the food again.

          "Start on the side of your weakest hand and work your way over. Slowly. I can go get water while you eat."

Hawke felt the smirk form on his face as he adjusted his body closer to the table. He fought for a response, something clever only _he_ would say in this situation. Nothing. Nothing whatsoever came to mind. He huffed to himself and did as Fenris suggested. He started on the basket to his far left side and worked his way over. As he feasted, the elf stood and left the room. Hawke figured this would be his prime moment to escape but couldn't pull himself away from the food. He felt like a glutton as he tore through the first basket. He tipped the item closer, stared woefully at the crumbs, and pushed it away again. He was midway through the second basket and the wine when three waterskins were placed down on the table.

Hawke's attention went to them as Fenris plucked the wine from beside the rogue and took it with him to the opposite end of the table. Hawke wiped his hands against his trousers and hurriedly unfastened the cap from a pouch. He gulped down the water and found it infinitely more satisfying than the aged wine. Fenris watched the rogue, pitying him. Hawke glanced over and saw the stare. Disgust rolled in his stomach and almost made him lose his appetite. Almost – the hunger was a far more powerful force. He turned his head away and focused on the bought meal.

          "Where were you?" 

Fenris' voice was low and hollow, completely devoid of the anger he held earlier. In truth, he looked tired now, borderline exhausted. Hawke chanced another glance and saw the pity was missing. He relaxed again.

          "How long have you been looking?" He asked, having the manners to swallow down his food first.

          Fenris laughed, shaking his head slowly as he stared at the wine. "You have no idea…"

It was true in every sense. He had lost track of time. He was particularly asking because he was genuinely curious. How long  _had_ they been looking for him. He stacked the second basket in with the first and ravenously turned his attention to the third. He heard the cork whistle as it was pulled free. He didn't have to look to see Fenris gingerly taking a sip of the wine. He drank with more care than Hawke was using as he currently ate. For some reason, that prompted the human to slow down. He felt the food settle in his stomach like stones and for a brief, irrational moment, he feared that it wouldn't digest. He laughed at his own foolishness and coughed, food going down the wrong pipe. He reached for a waterskin and drained it of its contents.

          "I won't lie. I'm surprised." Hawke wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I thought you all would have left me to my own devices."

          "We did. For a while." Fenris set the bottle down and turned to face Hawke. "In the beginning when you first shut yourself away, we visited but uniformly decided it would be best to leave you to your grieving. Varric stopped by some days in only to be turned away. 'Master Hawke hasn't left his room,' Orana told him. He told Isabela; she told me, and I devised a way to pry you out of there."

Hawke found himself smiling slightly. Fenris briefly returned the expression.

          "But when I decided to visit again," he continued, "the chatty one, Bodahn, told me that you had gone. 'Gone where?' I had asked, but he didn't know." Fenris tipped his head down and rubbed his forearm idly. "Before I alerted the others, I decided to go on a search of my own. Who better to find a runaway than a runaway himself?"

          "But you couldn't find me." Hawke made the mistake of sounding proud.

          Their eyes met when Fenris lifted his head. "No," the elf replied coldly. "I could not."

Hawke refocused on the bread between his hands. He pulled it apart absentmindedly as Fenris continued talking.

          "After Isabela said that she spotted you outside the brothel –" Hawke expected venom here. There was none. "– we went out on a search. Aveline sent out a patrol and told any guards to keep a look out on their usual routes. We had leads, but leads soon turned into meaningless hearsay. Just beggars looking for coin." The elf laced his fingers together and set his gaze onto Hawke. It was hard to decipher how he felt. Fenris had gone into his self-preservation mode. His eyes held an oncoming storm, threatening the pouring rain and resounding thunder. "I can't explain how worried we all were about you."

          "You shouldn't—"

          "We had no choice." Fenris' hands slammed down onto the table, jostling everything including Hawke. He curled his fingers against the wood. "I don't understand the depth of your loss. I don't have a mother… that I remember… that I could have mourned. So, I won't pretend to empathise with that. There's no way that I could." He rubbed his lips together, sitting back slightly. "But. I know your need to run away, to hide and starve yourself like an unwanted hound. To belittle your worth because you're in pain, to want to fling yourself to the caves and see what would come out of it."

Their eyes met again, and the silence was heavy. Hawke tried to gauge Fenris' words, wanting to trace back to that moment in the elf's life that felt so similarly to his. Both broke away when Fenris' words filled the void.

          "So you thought of it…"

          "How could I not?" Hawke flashed a withering smile. "I keep thinking over and over about what happened and what I should have done. I know… that there's no way I could go back."

          "And so this is how you wish to make amends? Sacrificing the vestiges of your dignity in hopes for atonement?"

Hawke tensed his jaw and bit down until something hurt. He knew that his following words would have been uncalled for. Fenris took in a deep breath, as if steeling himself for something. When the two finally relaxed, it was with a measure of discomfort.

          "I saw the pity in your eyes," Hawke stated, lacing his fingers together on the table.

Fenris drew back, wide eyes blinking slowly as he stared at the human. In the next instance, he furrowed his brows together, lips twitching downward in a frown.

          "I merely understand what you're going through. What I feel is pain because of that. A hopeless sense of… care." Fenris fought to put his feelings into words. He lowered his gaze and stared down at his hands. In the silence, Hawke listened to the sound of his own beating heart as it thudded hard but slow in his chest. It skipped a bit as Fenris continued, "Do you forget the life I've had?"

         "No," Hawke said almost immediately, keeping his tone soft so he wouldn't be mistaken as impatient.

         Fenris lifted his head. "Are you blind to this curse in my flesh?"

         "No." Hawke resisted the urge to look at the lyrium lining Fenris' forearms.

         "Then how could you think that I would ever merely pity you? I feel for you, worry for you."

         "And now here you are, feeding me," Hawke jested. He sat up a bit straighter now.

Fenris met his smiling face without expression. The storm was still behind his eyes, but he still looked exhausted regardless. It made Hawke's heart hurt. He longed to know how long and how hard the others had been looking for him. He knew that they wouldn't let him out of their sight so easily now. But... Hawke's expression troubled as his vision unfocused. He couldn't see Fenris sitting at the other end of the table. He ducked his head forward.

Time moved in a blur. He felt himself fixated in his chair. He could hear Fenris' voice but didn't listen to the words. He felt the gauntleted hand on his shoulder but soon forgot its weight. Other voices swirled around him; other hands touched his arms to bring him comfort. In all of her relief, Merrill wrapped her arms tight around Hawke's shoulders. She breathlessly expressed her delight and fears. Hawke knew that he responded, knew that he smiled, but in his mind, he was fixed in that chair with his head bowed.

Isabela complimented him for dropping off the map and said that he would have made a good pirate. Only she and Hawke laughed. Varric sighed out something along the lines of "Don't encourage him." In Hawke's heart, he dismissed Varric.  _'No, Isabela. Tell me more; teach me to disappear.'_ Anders spoke; Aveline chastised, and in all of this Fenris leaned against the wall, watching Hawke hawkishly. Had the rogue had a better mind, he would have, without a doubt, made a joke about it. He felt like Varric did. If only he could have added onto it.

By the end of the hour, Merrill and Isabela left. Another hour passed and Anders headed back to the clinic. Aveline wouldn't have left if she didn't have business to attend to with her guards, and Varric soon followed her out. Hawke felt the tension in his neck as he leaned his head forward, and soon time fell together. Fenris sat at the opposite end of the table, and Hawke sat in his chair with his head bent forward. When he finally raised it, he sighed heavily. He met Fenris' gaze, and the elf only stared back at him silently.

They were both exhausted, and so Hawke happily followed Fenris to his bed. The sheets were new. The moth riddled ones were cast away in a corner of the room close to the bed. The pillows weren't the softest, but there were many of them. About five or six with one more trapped between the bed and the wall. Fenris was the first to lay on the best, and Hawke sat on the edge of it. He kept his feet planted flat on the ground; his gaze couldn't leave the light grey stone.

         "You should rest," Fenris stated. There was a command in his voice beneath the fatigue.

         Hawke grunted but soon shifted to lie down. "You're right."

They didn't embrace, but Fenris reached up to run his fingers over Hawke's face. The beard felt coarse under his fingers – worse than it ever felt before. Hawke's skin was dry and dirty, but all of that could be fixed some other time. It wasn't important now. Fenris drew his hand back, and they stared at each other for a while. Hawke's blinking was slow and heavy. He truly would fall asleep at any moment. Their eyes closed at the same time, and sleep was a forgiving escape.

When Hawke opened his eyes again, the moon was high overhead. It whispered for him to go in the cover of night, and so he sat up. Fenris' hand shot out to grab his wrist. Hawke stared down at the warrior elf. He saw lightning crack behind the shining green eyes. But he had to go.

There was a struggle. Fenris was smaller and more nimble, but Hawke's skill set gave him an upper hand. He knew how to work against Fenris, and a part of him felt bad for using his knowledge in such a way. He grabbed his clothes and slammed down a smoke flask down onto the ground. He exited through a window and fled via the Hightown rooftops. 

He needed to go to the Coast. If he couldn't amend his mistakes with the degradation of his form, then he would find penitence in sacrifice.


	4. Take a Deep Breath...

The Wounded Coast was dangerous for people of all skill sets. Caravan riders were usually warned to go with a team; brave travelers were often advised to go another way. Hawke, however, was not an innocent merchant nor was he brave. He was a foolish rogue who knew how to defend himself. He walked slowly over the dirt pathways and admired the area. It was beautiful at night and strangely more sinister. A scant wind was the only salvation from the oppressively dry night. He wandered along the Coast, looking for nothing but hoping for trouble.

There weren't many Darkspawn, a fact he both celebrated and despised. The one or two Tal-Vashoth he ran into weren't willing to quarrel with him – so long as he left them immediately. For a moment, Hawke battled with his better senses. He wanted to have a fight and knew that those of Quanari blood were strong enough to take him. He would have cursed them and their beliefs, but that spiteful fire wasn't that strong inside him. Instead, he left them to their literal fires and only glanced over his shoulder once as he walked away from the modest camps.

Maybe he wasn't that much of a fool after all.

Hawke climbed cliff faces and relished the granite digging under his nails. The sand was uncomfortable and threatened to fall into his eyes as he climbed, but he welcomed it all. Hawke perched on outcroppings and left when the suspicion of being watched grew too strong. He climbed in whatever direction seemed most interesting. He daringly crept along unstable earth and battled whatever mischief he found along the way. He dusted his hands when he finished and took deep breaths to stablise his heartbeat. Between two rock structures, he could see the bright light of a fire and heard the soft tittering of laughter. It must have been a Masqrader camp. Hawke advanced, thinking he could hide out with them for a while. They might have been comrades, but a lot of them were neutral towards him. He found a stable place to climb but froze in place, soon stumbling backwards. No. He knew he had one of two options if he visited the camp with his current state of mind:

One. He could get help from Isiah but risked being turned in to the others.

Two. He would feel compelled to challenge Isiah (or any of the other Masqraders) to a bloody fight.

He didn't want to deal with either prospect. He ducked away from the camp and the nearby cave it loomed behind. There were other Masqraden tents and hidden sleeping places that Hawke came across, but he avoided them all. He didn't want to be around friendly faces, not right now. He headed past the camps towards the more remote parts of the Coast. He followed twisting paths, most of which didn't lead anywhere. He swiped up any loot he found and bargained with the hidden merchant when their paths crossed. There were weapons and pieces of armour that the others would have l— No. He rejected the trinkets, only wanting the currency. The merchant bid him a fine night, and Hawke could only grunt absently at them in response.

Hawke lifted his head up towards the sky. The moon was so bright; the stars were twinkling shyly around him. It was so peaceful... As Hawke stared skyward, he was suddenly aware of the fatigue and stress that penetrated down to his bones. A small part of him wanted to rest. It wanted him to go down to the darkened shores of the Coast and lay down. He could easily forget the Darkspawn and the Blight. He could forget Fenris and Varric and Isabela and all of his other friends and acquaintances. That small part of him was awfully convincing. It promised he could just relax on the soft earth under the watchful eye of the moon. He could forget everything, be absorbed into the earth, and there wouldn't be a trace of him come morning.

Hawke closed his eyes as he mulled over this temptation. It sounded so promising, but it was only a small voice. No matter how comforting and sweet it was, the larger part of him wanted to move forward. That was the voice that asked for a chance at redemption and forgiveness. It was the side of him that wanted to seek justice for what happened to Mother. It was a hungry voice, an angry force, and it was the one he listened to. When he opened his eyes, Hawke slowly turned towards the dark mouth of the cave behind him. He almost wanted to thank the merchant for their silence, but instead, he went forward into darkness.

The cave was surprisingly empty. His footsteps crunched along loose rocks and echoed as he crossed dilapidated wooden bridges. He walked for about ten minutes without any encounters, and an unfamiliar sense of frustration crept through his veins. Hawke took his time exploring. He found no pleasure in the loot he uncovered. One path led deeper down where sharp and ominous stalactite decorated the ceiling. Hawke's steps creaked the unsteady wooden. His hands were curled into loose fists at his sides. He could see fallen corpses littered on the ground. A couple looked burnt. Soot and charred flesh clung bitterly to the bones. Others were impaled by broken blades and arrows. To Hawke's delight, the corpses reanimated with fiendish hisses. A disgusted version of delight erupted in his stomach and spread quickly throughout his body. Adrenaline pushed away the lingering fatigue and stress. The need for contrition silenced the voice that longed for the vision of stars and darkness.

The corpses were easy to defend against, but with every one that Hawke felled, more rushed towards him. He knew that, if the problem persisted, it would just be his endurance against their numbers. He took that risk. Hawke flicked his knives over his hands before readying his new battle stance. "Have at you!"

Hawke began to make steady progress forward. He passed out of one chamber into another. Stalagmites dotted the ground in various sizes. While they made combat more dangerous, they also worked greatly in Hawke's favour. Directly evading his foes was a clumsy effort, but once Hawke decided to dip and dodge between the structures, his offense improved incredibly. These vengeful wraiths were quick in speed but not in wit. It was easy to lead the fools to their own demise. When impaled on a stalagmite, Hawke delivered a final blow through the cranium. He laughed as they were quickly dispatched. It was a rueful noise that echoed off the walls as the last of his enemies fell. He sheathed his weapons and continued about his search. 

He hoped for more of a challenge as more corpses reanimated before his eyes. As he traveled along, he heard human voices yelling not too far ahead. Ne'er-do-wells and frantic, escaped mages usually fled to the Coast's caves. Hawke flicked the sludge from his knives and crept into the narrow hall leading an antechamber. Sure enough. He spotted his new quarry just ahead. Raiders mostly, but among them were two mages. Hawke felt his blood boil at the sight of them. Something that had never happened before, not with such blind discrimination. But he cared little. He wanted their blood to spill.

Hawke stood up straight and strolled into the antechamber. He looked around and saw there was a door leading to a larger room. Off to his left were wooden stairs leading down to a lower level. Could be anything: a treasure room, an empty dead end, or an exit out to the cove. If he lived, he would explore later. If.

The raiders within the room froze when they saw him casually strolling in. One of the mages began backing out of the room at the sight of Hawke. He stopped and met the retreating mage's gaze. "Say your prayers!" A raider shouted, charging at Hawke. He saw the mage turn on their heels and leave. The rogue frowned and brought his attention to his attacker. He dodged backwards out of the way and slammed down a flask onto the ground. The raider was dazed by the dark cloud that spiked up. He wobbled unsteadily as Hawke appeared behind him and stabbed him in the back. The rogue pulled out his blades and kicked the raider onto his stomach. Hawke stamped down his foot onto his enemy's back and twisted his knives again. Blood streaked the ground as he looked at the others.

"Well?!" He began with a snarl. He pointed his blade at the remaining mage. "Come at me!"


	5. Now Finally... Forgive Yourself

Hawke's voice echoed off the cavern walls. His blood dripped sluggishly onto the floor. Pain echoed through his body, and he felt he was dragging himself back from the dead with each swig of elixir. The lyrium potion he drank a while back was electric through his body, giving him a surge of energy. Now, it ached in his muscles like fire. Even still, each and every ache gave him cause to move forward. He would keep swinging until his body gave out.

He was thankful that his opponents were faring the same as well. One of them had fallen. A brutal gash through the neck was the cause of death. The remaining mage was bleeding. Her hands were red and angry from overextending herself with magic. Either she was a novice or she was more powerful than she realised. Either way, that too worked in Hawke's favour. The raider rogue twisted his knives irritably. He withstood a lot of Hawke's fury. The fact that he kept getting up was a bit concerning. Thrilling, even.

The mage ran in close, surprising Hawke with her burst of speed. He was too stunned to protect himself from the brutal cracks of her staff against his form. He hissed in pain and watched through squinted eyes as she healed her partner. Hawke rose to his feet to combat her, but a flask cracked down in front of him. The mage leapt away from thick smoke and shattered glass. Hawke felt the daggers dig into his shoulders. A booted foot kicked him away. He was just glad the other rogue didn't twist the knives before pulling away. 

Hawke rolled to the side and heard daggers impale the ground where he once was. The lateral movement took the other rogue by surprise, and Hawke tucked backwards as another surge of magick was thrown his way. He heard the mage hiss again, a noise both derisive and painful. He was met with a choice. He could kill the mage, an easy target, and take on the rogue properly.  _Or_ he could kill the rogue and corner the mage like a fish out of water. Well, the choice was so easy to make he could have slapped himself for contemplating in the first place.

Hawke tossed down his daggers to the ground on either side of him. His hands went to the hidden knives at his lower back and rushed forward. The rogue matched him. His expression was tight, furious, and murderous. Hawke couldn't blame him; he felt much of the same in his own heart and knew that the smile on his face was calculating and patronizing. Hawke thrust the first knife into the other rogue's chest; the second knife came from a holster on his left thigh and went straight into the other man's back. Hawke felt the wind knocked out of him as the mage concentrated a gust of power his way. "Stay with me, Mikheil!" she shouted, twisting her staff once again. Mikheil. Hawke frowned. He wish he had never heard that name.

Mikheil pulled the dagger from his chest, and the mage covered him with a force of magic. Her expression was concentrated, but she didn't seem to be in much pain. She must have healed herself while Hawke was busy. That was a problem; that meant she moved quickly, but on the flip side, she couldn't have done much restoration in such a short period of time. It was a double edge sword and one Hawke planned to stab her with. Pray he should fall on the other end.

Hawke now had the obstacle of dodging the mage's magic as well as herding Mikheil closer to the discarded daggers. He laughed bitterly, accepting the challenge he had inflicted upon himself. Mikheil fought and struggled. He even met Hawke tit for tat whenever the older rogue struck him with another of those hidden daggers, but at the end, Mikheil was eventually run down. Hawke used most of his hidden weapons to bring Mikheil to his knees. Mikheil stumbled backwards, hand rising up to his chest as he choked on his final breaths. Hawke walked forward and pulled a blade from Mikheil's stomach. He quickly tossed it towards the mage and saw it sink into her left shin. The mage wobbled in pain and sank down to her other knee. Hawke kicked Mikheil onto his back. The daggers in his back were what ultimately finished him off. Hawke decided to grant him that final mercy and pulled up his forgotten daggers from the ground.

He moved towards the mage whose name he never learned, whose power he felt dogging down his every movement even now. She whimpered painfully, and her expression was downright venomous as she stared Hawke down. She didn't fear death, but unlike Hawke, she didn't long for the finality of it either. Hawke wasted no time and spared no final words for her. He aimed his blades for her throat and skull. She clenched her staff tightly, and it was now a race to see who could land the first blow.

Neither of them. Instead, the mage who had first escaped struck Hawke with conjured arrows. The effect was immediate. Hawke was thrown back and pinned to the wall by these arrows. Their power ripped through him, and the pain was laced with the fire of poison. It sedated him, but every time he relaxed, he felt an unbearable tension in his right arm. Hawke twisted his head up and saw that his left arm was pinned awkwardly above his head. Any downward movement could dislocate it. He laughed at himself for not expecting such a trick. Of course the tables would turn! There were no gods on his side to work in his favour. Just him against everyone else! Naturally. Naturally...

Hawke leaned his head forward and spit blood down between his legs. His heart beat hard and slow; he could feel it echo in his ears. The sound deafened him. He brought his gaze up and saw Mikheil's body not too far from his own. Punctured, bleeding, lifeless. Maybe soon, Hawke would meet such a fate.

The shame of it all - and what was perhaps his punishment - was that Hawke was slow to lose consciousness. He heard the dripping of water, the howling of wind through the cavern. A corpse shambled past him once. It might have been reanimated by lingering magic, and Hawke fought it viciously with one arm and a lot of kicking. He still had a fire in him; he still wanted to fight until it was extinguished. He earned his victory, but his punishment was a dislocation shoulder. He groaned in pain and growled when it flared up. Hawke let his head hang and swayed it pitifully left and right. When darkness began to edge his vision, he found peace of mind. Hawke prayed to his mother that he would be with her soon and fell into the welcoming arms of Death.

Death not only shunned him, but it brought him back.

Hawke's eyes opened, and he peered at his surroundings. He was home. He could hear the shuffle and clank of armour not too far away. On the other side of… something. His door, perhaps? His limbs all felt heavy, and he couldn't find the will to move and test them. He remembered one being dislocated, but he wondered when it was popped back into place.

         "Isabela went looking for you on the Coast. She ran into a mage who sent word there was a madman threatening to kill them. Said they barely made it out with their friend. Isabella went, found you, and dragged you as far away as she could before coming to get us."

The Tevine accent wasn't lost on him. Hawke closed his eyes and sighed slowly through his nostrils. When he felt ready, he turned his head and looked to Fenris. The elf's face was unreadable, but there was something vicious and heated in his eyes. Hawke didn't dare look away. Not this time. He was ready for further punishment. Extend his foolish life but beat him within an inch of it! Tempt him with being closer to  _her_ but always too far away... Hawke felt his lips tremble, and his eyes narrowed to stave off the burning he felt in them. Fenris schooled his reaction out of sympathy, but he was still furious. He expressed as much with his silence.

Fenris stood from the wooden chair by Hawke's bed and walked to the door. He opened it, called for Aveline, and Hawke watched as Aveline marched into his bedroom. She gripped the hilt of her secondary sword to keep from tightening her hands around his waist, shaking him, and calling him foolish. But she did not hide the ire in her voice. 

         "The recklessness! The worry! We searched high and low for you, and you leave us not once but  _twice_. We're friends, Hawke."

         "Aveline –"

         "But you've treated us like strangers all this while. Did you not think that we could help?"

         "I didn't –"

         "Did you not think we were worthy enough to _try?"_

         Hawke lifted his head and met her gaze. He spoke firmly, "Aveline."

She acknowledged him with silence. She straightened her posture, lowering her hand at her side. Her jaw set as she clenched her teeth together. Somewhere off to the side, still near the door, Fenris watched them and waited.

         "I'm sorry. I am, but I… I don't think…" He shook his head and closed his eyes. "I had to do it on my own."

         "But why?" Aveline asked softly, her voice imploring.

         Before Hawke could answer, another cut through. "Because he's a fool." Hawke opened his eyes and saw Varric sauntering in. Isabela and Anders came behind him. "He's hardheaded and is too proud to ask for help." Varric came to the other side of the bed. Isabela and Anders hung near Fenris, softly talking to each other. Varric sighed and placed his hands on the bed, knuckles turned against the sheets. "Go ahead. Tell us the reason."

And then there was a silence for Hawke to fill. The whispering in the corner barely permeated the quiet. Hawke brought his arms to himself and winced. He looked left and right and saw patches on his arms, covering numerous scrapes and gashes. He stopped moving, only wondering how many more covered his entire body. Hawke lifted his head and dropped it back; he stared up at the smooth ceiling. 

         "My mother. What she went through was unforgivable. I can never erase it from my mind. I can never…" Hawke squinted at the ceiling, lips turning down in a hard frown. "I can never undo her death. I can never see her again..."

         "And so you punished yourself for the loss?" Aveline.

Until the very end, Hawke didn't think it was punishment. Drinking and fucking and fighting, it was all part of the road less travelled. He wanted to try and erase her; he wanted to forget his failure. And if none of that worked, he would just escort himself into the grave. Somehow, while he was wrapped up in his own path for destruction, he forgot about everyone else. Soon, the trio off to the side untucked themselves from their corner and came over to Hawke's bed. Anders moved closer to inspect the bandages and patches.

         "Merrill and Isiah are looking for supplies," he said to Hawke, to everyone. "Your wounds pretty deep, but I was able to clean you up pretty well."

         "Hawke owes you a word of thanks, Anders," Fenris replied coldly. The tone was aimed towards Hawke, who sighed and leaned his head towards Anders.

         "Thank you," he replied. Anders just smiled warmly at him.

         "You're in hot water. With all of us," Anders stated. He drew back. "But right now, we'll let you rest." Anders looked around to everyone, giving pointed looks to Aveline and Fenris. "Afterward, then you'll get a stern word from all of us."

         "I've to continue rounds," Aveline stated. She looked to Hawke. "But this isn't over yet. Heal quickly, so I may give you a proper earful."

         Hawke felt his lips quirk up. "I'll do my best."

         "And I'll set out as well," Isabela reached out and touched Hawke's leg. "I'll come back in a while to check up on you."

         "See you soon." 

Aveline and Isabela filed out of the room. Anders briefly left to retrieve a bucket and attain food for Hawke. Varric took the chair by Hawke's bed, and with all the ice of a wintry night, Fenris came to the head of the bed and climbed up. He leaned back against the wall and gently plucked at Hawke's hair. At least the elf wasn't mad enough to scalp Hawke while he was defenseless. Maybe when he could fight back, then Fenris would give him what for. Hawke smiled to himself and sighed through his nose. Varric began to brief Hawke on some of the latest ongoings at the Hanged Man. There was a brawl; the bartender got involved. Isabela got Merrill to dance with her atop one of the tables one night. From the sound of it, it was a joyous occasion.

Hawke sank back into his bed and listened to Varric's colourful storytelling. Everything he hadn't been a part of had almost completely missed… It was a constant battle between figuring out whether or not he was truly a fool. This time around, he felt like one. He felt a soft hand touch his cheek and was a bit surprised when Fenris removed a gauntlet to stroke his face. Hawke blinked in confusion; a few more tears slid down his face. Fenris sighed through his nose, resigned but knowing. Varric was gracious enough to continue spinning his tales. Hawke mentally thanked him for that.

There would be more stories, more tear wiping, more silent acceptance of vulnerability before Hawke was truly healed. He knew he would never forget his mother or what happened to her, but he would just have to remember her in a better light. He would remember her smile, her playfulness, her chastising. She would be with him on the road to recovery and beyond.


End file.
